


hot as a fever, rattle of bones

by alchemystique



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen has been on enough bad dates in his life to spot a disaster before it happens. </p><p>This is a category 4 hurricane at least. Maybe if he hadn’t gotten offended by her itinerary it would have been something more along the lines of a tropical depression. Maybe if she hadn’t called him an ill-mannered slob he might not have pushed it from a disturbance to a storm. </p><p>They know how to push each others buttons, is what he’s saying here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hot as a fever, rattle of bones

Owen has been on enough bad dates in his life to spot a disaster before it happens. 

This is a category 4 hurricane at least. Maybe if he hadn’t gotten offended by her itinerary it would have been something more along the lines of a tropical depression. Maybe if she hadn’t called him an ill-mannered slob he might not have pushed it from a disturbance to a storm. 

They know how to push each others buttons, is what he’s saying here. 

Sometimes that’s a very bad thing. Sometimes it’s not so horrible.

Her skirt is rucked up around her waist, and her knuckles are white against the granite of the counter top as he noses at the green lace edging along the inside of her thigh. She’s silent and still, and oh, how he wants her to squirm, to let out uncharacteristic noises and let fucking _loose_ for once in her goddamn life.

Her nails squeak against the granite when he sucks a mark into her thigh, and any caution he could have possibly had left goes straight out the window. 

“ _Owen_ ,” she mutters finally, as he works a finger under the edge of the lace, and he takes a moment to stare up at her - eyes blown wide and face flushed, the bow of her lips even more enticing than usual with her lipstick smeared - he must have dug a hand into her hair, and he can’t entirely remember when, but the normally pin-straight locks are moving towards wild and she looks like she could eat him alive.   


She usually looks like that, but he likes this version of maneater Claire just as much as he’d enjoyed all the others. 

“What happened to Mr. Grady?” he asks, and she glares, frustration and annoyance dipping behind the heavy lids of her eyes. Jesus Christ, either they’re gonna have the best fuck of their lives or she’s about to strangle him with her thighs.  


“Just…just _do_ something,” she tells him, hitching her hips just a tiny bit closer to him. Technically she’s never actually been the boss of him, but he’s more than happy, just this once, to take the words as a demand. 

She lets out this tiny little noise, somewhere between a hitched breath and a groan, when his thumb flicks at her clit through the lace, and that’s pretty much all it takes for Owen to slide the fabric away and get to work.

(He likes this part - a willing woman at the mercy of his tongue, the squirms and sighs and the clench of muscles, the way they fall apart with the proper sequence of moves, the way fingers tug his hair almost to the point of pain, the wanton heel digging into his back - he fucking loves it, and Claire does not disappoint.)

The first moan makes a shiver of anticipation roll up his spine. It’s a small victory, but he wants to see her fall apart, wants to see the flush spread along her thighs, wants to feel her lose all that fine-tuned control, wants to prove a goddamn point before she refuses to speak to him ever again and he goes back to watching her from afar, back to when she was the dangerous animal he trusted even less than his raptors. 

“Ow- _en_ ,” she mutters again, as he presses a second finger inside her, swirling his thumb again, his tongue sliding along the slick heat of her. Her head hits the mirror behind her with a dull thud, and Owen grins against her, feels her fluttering around his fingers. She opens one eye, catches the smirk on his face, and her hand slides through the hair at the back of his head to _tug_.  


“Can I help you with something?”  


“Shut the hell up,” she tells him, voice breathy and low, and she lets go of the counter just long enough to yank at the collar of his shirt, obviously attempting to pull him up off the floor.  


His knees wobble as he stands, and he can’t help but curse the idiot that had thought going down on his sort-of-boss in the bathroom of a Margaritaville was a great idea. Oh right. That was him. 

She tugs him in, then, lips crashing against his own, one hand palming the front of his shorts, and Owen loses his head momentarily. 

There isn’t much, apparently, that Claire isn’t spectacular at, and when slim fingers work the laces of his shorts free and dip inside, he has to take a moment to think of Echo and Charlie tearing into a hunk of meat to keep from embarrassing himself completely. Something flashes in her gaze when he breaks the kiss, dangerous and sparkling with amused intent, her lip quirking just slightly to one side, and he has to stop himself from rutting against her hand like a horny teenager. 

That doesn’t stop his head from falling to her shoulder as he flicks open buttons on her shirt, fingers sliding along her ribcage and over the cup of her _matching fucking bra -_ he should have known - nipple already pebbled against his palm as he sucks a mark into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

She makes an impatient noise, low in her throat, her knee sliding along his hip, the sharp edge of her heel digging into his ass, pressing him forward, and Owen curses against her neck, hand already sliding up one pale white thigh. 

She’s a vision, hair in disarray, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and smirk firmly in place as she slides a hand down the length of him again, and Owen has the momentary thought that perhaps there’s still a way to reconcile this disaster of a date, some way to get past the fact that she’s a crazy control freak and he has an irrational distrust of an orderly system, if only to see if her smile could light a room just as easily when he didn’t have a hand down her shirt and slim fingers around his cock. 

“ _Claire_ -,” he stumbles over her name, reaching up to curl a hand around her neck, drag her in for another kiss -  


His phone rings in his back pocket.

It’s like a bucket of ice. Her neck jerks backward, away from the fingers sliding along her skin, blinking against the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, and her hand slips from the waistband of his shorts, her legs falling loose on either side of him. The wide-eyed look she sends him this time makes him want to throw something. Maybe punch a wall. 

“Wait, don’t -.”  


He can see the moment her fight or flight response kicks in, and stumbles back a step when she slides off the counter. His phone is still ringing. 

“This was a mistake,” she says, and he stands completely still as she pulls at the hem of her skirt, fingers working to button her shirt as she turns half-away from him. She’s jittery, nearly jumps when he digs a hand into the back pocket of his shorts and digs the phone loose, and he doesn’t say a word as he watches her brush her fingers through her hair in the mirror, bends to pick up her purse.  


“Sure. Total mistake. Definitely not worth the fuss.” The call finally runs through to voicemail.  


Her back is to him, and he can see her sigh even as she rolls her shoulders back, her jaw sliding forward and up. “I’d thank you for a lovely date, but… I’m sure we can both agree this would never have worked.”

The urge to tell her to fuck off is almost as large as the urge to yank her back to him and convince her it would work. Instead he rolls his tongue over his teeth and tries to imagine he’ll forget the taste of her, the feel of her under his tongue.

Her head swivels just enough for him to catch her eye in the mirror. “Yeah,” he finally admits, lying through his teeth, wondering if maybe he should lace his shorts up already, if only to force the blood back to his damn brain. “Never would have worked.”

He imagines he makes up the disappointment in her gaze when she pushes through the unlocked door a moment later.

——

The handlers surround him like the raptors do the next morning, curious to know how his date with the Ice Queen went, and Owen thinks for a moment about exaggerating, telling them all what a fantastic lay she was, rubbing it on thick, making up some heinous lie. Instead he shrugs, the memory of her challenging smirk in his mind as he gestures vaguely. 

“Turns out velociraptor handlers and corporate lackeys don’t actually have that much in common,” he tells them, and when they push for more he shakes his head, laughs it off, and then distracts them all with a story about his Navy days.  


The next time he sees her she makes eye contact across the length of a conference room, swallows heavily, and nods her head like a consummate professional. 

Owen has a feeling that _eventually_ , they’re gonna fucking talk about it.

Even if it takes him the next five years to wear her down. 


End file.
